


Real

by Lefaym



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes and related fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 07:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>That bloody dream again.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fera_festiva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fera_festiva/gifts).



> (1) Happy birthday, my wonderful fera_festiva! Here is the second part of your present! I'm very sorry, this was supposed to be porn, but John and Sherlock wouldn't comply.
> 
> (2) Thank you to my excellent betas, in_the_bottle and Cedara.

That bloody dream again.

I must have had it over a hundred times by now; Sherlock falling, Sherlock hitting the ground, Sherlock dead with blood in his hair. Every time the same; every time, me waking up, sweating, yelling out. This time was no different.

Except that this time it _was_ different, because everything I’d thought I’d seen wasn’t real, and he wasn’t dead. 

Not that I quite believed it yet. Part of me was still pretty well convinced that this was some cruel hoax, or that I’d finally cracked and had started hallucinating. That would explain the dream. My subconscious telling me that it was all wrong, that I’d imagined everything; the only reality was Sherlock’s broken body on the pavement.

The streetlamps from outside shone dully on the white walls of my room. The room I’d rented eighteen months ago, after Sherlock—after Sherlock had—

_God. Fuck._ I didn’t know anything anymore.

I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. I needed something to drink. I needed—

I needed air, space to think; something to show me that I wasn’t going crazy.

Ten minutes later, I was out front of the flat hailing a taxi, which I couldn’t really afford, but it was too late to take the tube. I wondered if the driver would recognise the address, but if he did, he kept silent about it.

I heard the violin as soon as I stepped out of the taxi. I could see his silhouette in the window. My throat tightened, almost painfully.

I still had a key. Mrs Hudson had refused to take it back from me when I moved out. “Just in case,” she’d said. I hadn’t thought to give it back to Sherlock when he’d moved back in two weeks ago. The stairs creaked as I made my way up to the flat. I couldn’t name the piece he was playing; something of his own, perhaps, composed while he was away. 

He didn’t pause, didn’t look away from the window when I entered the room. I made my way over to the armchair— _my_ armchair—and sat, watching him.

The last year and a half hadn’t been kind to him. He was thinner than ever, and there were grey hairs in amongst the black, now. He looked as if a slight breeze might blow him away. No wonder I could hardly believe that he was real.

Eventually, the music faded away to silence; one final chord hung in the air, then dropped away to nothing. “You’ve had a bad dream,” he said.

I swallowed. “How did you know?”

“You always scratch your left ear when you’ve had a bad dream.”

“You haven’t even looked at me.”

“I can see your reflection in the glass.” He turned around to face me. 

“God, Sherlock,” I said.

“John.”

I stood and crossed the space between us in two long strides. “Sherlock, I—I need—” 

I raised my hand to his face. “Christ,” I said, my voice close to breaking, “I can’t believe you’re real.” My fingers brushed past his ear, into his hair. “My God.”

Sherlock looked at me for a moment, his face impassive. And then he kissed me.

He was warm. His lips were warm, his breath was warm. Everything about him was solid, warm; completely and utterly real. It didn’t even feel weird that I was _kissing him_ , because it was almost like I’d been waiting for it to happen. Perhaps I had been waiting for it, and Sherlock had managed to deduce it before I did.

“There,” he said, when he finally pulled away from me. “I think that was right.”

I nodded. “Yeah, um—yeah, I would say that was pretty right.”

“You feel better now?”

“Much better. Thanks.”

The corners of his mouth turned upwards, just a little bit. “Good.” And then— “You can stay if you like.”

“Stay?”

“It’s a bit late for you to be going back to—that other place.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose it is.” God, I sounded like an idiot.

He nodded once. “Good.” And then, like nothing had happened, he turned back to his violin. This time I recognised the tune; one of Mendelssohn’s concertos. It was one I’d always liked him to play when—before.

I sank back into my armchair, and closed my eyes. That bloody dream, the dream that had brought me there. I was too tired right then, but I knew that in the morning—in the morning I’d actually have to think about what just happened. And what wouldn’t have happened, if that dream had stayed away, like it was supposed to.

I shook my head, and drifted back to sleep.


End file.
